


crack in the ceiling/where the light bleeds in

by badacts



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Loss of Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts
Summary: The effects of the Lazarus Pit don’t last forever. Just ask Ra’s.The thing is, Jason thought that might be a problem he’d have to deal with later. Like, ‘towards the end of a natural human lifespan’ later, in the event that he reached old age in his round two at all. Instead, he’s twenty-four, and he’s pretty sure he’s dying.Or worse, not dying. It wasn’t, after all, the Lazarus Pit that brought him back to life. It just restored the function of his brain and everything that makes him himself along with it. Which he now seems to be losing.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 13
Kudos: 462





	crack in the ceiling/where the light bleeds in

**Author's Note:**

> This should be like 20000 words, it took me that long to write.
> 
> Title bastardised from 'Need Nothing' by Verite.
> 
> (The treatment in this story isn't particularly accurate but that doesn't matter because this is a fic about vigilantes dressed like animals and also BROTHERS.)

The effects of the Lazarus Pit don’t last forever. Just ask Ra’s.

The thing is, Jason thought that might be a problem he’d have to deal with later. Like, ‘towards the end of a natural human lifespan’ later, in the event that he reached old age in his round two at all. Instead, he’s twenty-four, and he’s pretty sure he’s dying.

Or worse, not dying. It wasn’t, after all, the Lazarus Pit that brought him back to life. It just restored the function of his brain and everything that makes him himself along with it. Which he now seems to be losing.

So far, the extent of his problem-solving has been some quiet questions about the Lazarus Pits that still exist and also determinedly not saying anything to any of the bats. Of course, keeping it on the down-low from them precludes acting crazy in front of them.

Which is why, when the becoming-familiar need to puke comes over him while he’s working a case with Nightwing, he bolts.

“The hell?” he hears from behind him. “Red Hood!”

Jason ignores him, rapidly regressing from ‘feared vigilante’ to ‘scared animal’. By now, he knows the drill: first, the faint roll of nausea, followed by confusion, and then the visual hallucinations. Sometimes he hears shit, too. Then it’s followed last of all by the pain of his brain trying determinedly to break itself apart.

Pain is just electrical impulses. A reaction of the body - just the workings of fancy machinery, or maybe fancy meat. It’s the other stuff that scares the shit out of him. Particularly the shivering loss of control.

He can’t afford it. He can’t ever, ever afford to lose control.

He goes to one of his quieter places, with the entrance through a slanted skylight on the roof. His hands feel a thousand miles from his head as he fumbles through setting the security system. His vision is sparking, bubbles of light bursting and then dimming again too slowly.

The sliver of rational thought left to him wonders if this time will be the one he can’t come back from, but the rest of him is consumed by the need to get somewhere dark and quiet and just wait. He takes off his boots and the too-heavy outer layers that are chafing at his skin and setting his nerves on fire. Once he’s mostly stripped down, he lowers himself cautiously onto the mattress in his windowless bedroom.

In the dark, with his eyes closed, it’s almost like having a stomach bug, if he discounts the sense of impending doom. He breathes, and breathes, and determinedly doesn’t lose it.

* * *

He wakes with a start when the lights come on overhead. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and the resultant bolt of pain drags a sound disturbingly close to a whine from between his teeth.

“Fuck,” someone says, too loud. “Jason?”

Jason doesn’t reply, forcing an arm up to cover his eyes. The return of the darkness helps, but it also makes him aware that he’s breathing too fast. He wishes he could stop: it _hurts_.

“Photosensitivity,” Tim says more quietly, either narrating the work his big brain is doing, or, in a more likely scenario, telling the others exactly what’s wrong with Jason. “Rapid respiration. Nausea, if I had to guess.” 

Fingers ghost over his brow, and then prod less gently at his chest and abdomen. He flinches away from the touch to his belly. “ _Don’t_.”

“Diffuse abdo pain,” Tim says. “Don’t touch? Sorry. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

He sounds awfully relaxed, for someone who’s in danger. Jason remembers vividly before - Tim underneath him, breathing blood, and the sick and overwhelming sense of victory that he had won out over his replacement. Not caring that the kid under him might die. _Hoping_ for it.

He can’t blame the Pit for his thoughts, not really, but it can take some of the responsibility for his lack of inhibitions, control and morality. These days, he’s pretty happy that Tim Drake is alive and kicking. He really, really doesn’t want to be one to put him in a grave.

“Go away,” Jason grits out. Each muscle in his jaw feels like high-tensile wire.

“One moment,” Tim says, followed by the distinctive click of an earpiece being muted. “I’m not going anywhere, Jay.”

The desperation sweeps over him like a tide. Thirty seconds ago, he couldn’t have imagined moving. Now, he forces through that and lunges at Tim.

Then he’s face down on the floor and retching, not quite sure how he got there. His _head_ -

“Easy,” Tim is crooning, like he might have been going for a while. It has to be a tone he learned direct from Dick. “Yes, thank you, B. That’s very helpful.” And _that_ tone is the result of years of dealing with Batman. “ _Yes_ , B.”

There are fingers at Jason’s sleeve then, pushing it up, and then a pinprick in Jason’s arm. Tim says, “Ondansetron administered. Give it a minute.”

Jason lies there, trying not to inhale his own sour breath, feeling the right side of his head throb in time with his heart, until his stomach actually starts to settle. It feels like fifty years - with his metabolism, it’s probably more like ten minutes. He empties a sigh into his floorboards.

“There you go,” Tim says. He sounds like he’s talking to the victim of a violent crime, not Jason. “I’m going to help you back onto the bed, okay?”

His hands wrap around Jason’s forearms, and he starts to pull Jason up. But wiry muscle aside, one hundred and fifty-some pounds of Tim doesn’t have a hope of moving Jason if he doesn’t want to be moved. And he _doesn’t._

“...or not,” Tim says, and capitulates by settling a blanket over Jason - being careful to avoid trapping his arms - and then raising his head to settle a pillow underneath it. It’s not much movement, but it still makes stars go off behind Jason’s closed eyelids. He bites back another groan.

“Your head hurts, huh?” Tim asks, because he’s some kind of detective or something. Jason would roll his eyes if he could. “Have you been knocked out recently?”

“No,” Jason says, and then a fragment of his familiar refrain: “Helmet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tim’s definitely rolling his eyes. “What does it feel like? The pain?”

Jason presses his fingers into his right eye socket. Then he flicks them out to mime an explosion. “Throbs.”

He doesn’t need to see Tim to hear his metaphorical ears prick up. “Oh, shit. Did you see things, before it started to hurt?”

“Lights,” Jason admits. It’s less creepy than admitting that he also hears bubbling like boiling water, on and off, just quiet enough he can almost ignore it right before the pain kicks in. “They’re green.”

“Good,” Tim says, which absolutely wasn’t the response Jason expected. There’s more rustling, and then Tim says, “Little prick.”

“Fuck you,” Jason replies, letting Tim stick him with another needle, and then, when Tim snorts, “D’you have to do the clinic run too?” That was something he did once or twice when Bruce felt he needed the education - assisting Leslie at the clinic. Nothing makes you as appreciative of working on other bats as helping treat civilians. Normal people.

“Only when I really pissed him off,” Tim replies. “I’m going to roll you over now. Try not to puke on me.”

“Not gonna puke,” Jason replies, more out of stubborn will than any actual faith in himself. However, his stomach stays settled, though he keeps his eyes firmly closed.

“You’re lucky I brought my kit with me,” Tim mutters, more to himself than to Jason as he resettles the blanket. “What were you going to do next time you get a serious wound? Put a bandaid on it?” 

Jason’s first aid kit is perfectly adequate, though maybe a little sparsely stocked right now. Normal people just don’t carry prescription anti-nausea medication on their person. Jason can’t think of a way to communicate that without moving his jaw, so he just gives an unamused huff.

There’s a ruffle of sound, and then the distinctive soft _shick_ of someone pulling off their domino. “It’s just a matter of waiting it out now.”

“What?” Jason mumbles. He’s assuming Tim isn’t waiting for him to die - not even he would sound so cool about that - but he’s not entirely clear on what it is they’re waiting for, or doing, or what Tim just injected him with. It’s just that now the creeping anxious nausea has faded, it’s hard to worry about anything beyond the pain and the way his whole body feels like rocks shoved in a sack.

It’s the light - even through his eyelids, it’s uncomfortable. He’s just about to demand Tim turn off the overheads when a hand drops over his eyes, leaving him in blissful darkness.

“Sorry,” Tim says. “I need the light in case you actually are having an aneurysm. Do you get headaches like this a lot?”

Jason’s slightly offended by Tim calling it a _headache._ His _brain_ is breaking. “Sometimes.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re having a migraine,” Tim says. “Have you been to a doctor?”

That question is frankly fucking laughable, and both of them know it. Jason mumbles, “I’m dead.”

“And as you like to tell us, you wear a helmet because you already died of head trauma once,” Tim says. “People with past TBIs are more likely to have migraines.”

“How’d I know that?” Jason’s slur doesn’t sound pissed off enough. Skipping the consonants hurts less though. “Didn’ finish high school.”

“Neither did I,” Tim points out.

“Nerd.”

“Loser.” 

“Probably.” At least they’re in the same boat. “Migraine, huh?”

“Pretty sure,” Tim confirms. “If you were having a brain bleed, I reckon you’d be dead by now. Again.”

“Lazarus Pit. Thought m’head was broken,” Jason mutters faintly. He doesn’t mean to say it, would never admit it to Tim Drake in a million years. It’s just a moment of weakness.

“It is,” Tim replies, on the shadow of a laugh. “Not like that, though.”

* * *

The after phase is a real trip.

“Euphoria,” Tim observes. “Decrease in pain, plus all the dopamine your body has been pumping out - instant high. Same thing happens to new moms once they’ve pushed their babies out.”

“Thanks for that,” Jason rasps. He’s in bed now, though he’s working on blocking out how he got here. He’s already going to owe Tim for tonight, but he draws the line...right there. “Seriously, you can leave now.”

“No can do,” Tim replies. He’s still in his uniform, though he’s ditched the cape and the armed over-vest for just the pants and a slick-fabric undershirt. It makes Jason’s gear look clunky and old-fashioned by comparison. “I’m on baby-sitting duty.”

Not even the slow haze of hormones can dull the bite of irritation at that. “Fuck you.”

“To be clear, I don’t think you’re going anywhere right now,” Tim clarifies. “I’m just here for everyone elses’ peace of mind.”

“Anxious freaks,” Jason mumbles, though not unkindly.

“You can hardly blame them. It’s never a good sign when the Red Hood disappears without a word,” Tim says cheerfully.

Despite himself, Jason prickles. “They that worried for the safety of Gotham’s criminal element?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tim snorts. “They’re worried you’re going to get yourself killed. _Again_.”

Jason doesn’t have a reply to that. Sensing that, Tim continues, “I actually think you might be right about the Lazarus Pit. You thought it was wearing off, right?”

“Right,” Jason confirms after a moment, though grudgingly. Stupid detective brother.

“It might be,” Tim says. “Just enough for your brain to remember that it got seriously injured back then. Or you might have a different trigger. There’s something here about diarying your episodes and trying to figure out the causes from that.”

Jason doesn’t have to look to know Tim is scrolling through his phone where he’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress next to Jason. He said something brisk about being close enough to ‘monitor’ when Jason tried to shove him off, and he’d given up. His head doesn’t hurt anymore, not precisely, but he still feels wobbly-necked and fragile.

“Triggers?”

“Storms, specific kinds of food, stress,” Tim lists.

Jason opens his eyes specifically to give Tim a dubious look. “Stress?”

Tim looks back at him just as dubiously. “How many hours sleep do you get a night?”

“Fuck off,” Jason replies, and firmly closes his eyes again. _Stress_. Jesus Christ.

“I’ll get you a headache journal for Christmas,” Tim says lightly, and then, “So, why’d you try to beat me up?”

“I always beat you up.”

“Not tonight you didn’t. We don’t reward points for effort in Gotham.”

Oh. _That_ attempt at beating him up. Jason mumbles, “Don’t know.”

“Whatever.” Tim can fit a lot of scorn in that tiny body of his.

“Maybe I just don’t want you around,” Jason snaps, sharp as he can make it right now.

Tim, predictably, rears back to give Jason one of his lizard-glares. It doesn’t last long though, fading into something a bit more evaluatory. He says, “You can’t make me leave.”

Jason sputters, caught between the desire to laugh derisively and the desire to get up and shove Tim out the window he came in through. Before he can pick, Tim lays down on top of the bedcovers on the empty side of the mattress.

“Hey, this bed is really comfy,” he says, as though he isn’t constantly being found asleep on hard non-bed surfaces across Gotham. Jason once found him napping on a _rooftop_. 

“I’ll give you the website of the place I got it off if you go away,” Jason attempts.

“Like I couldn’t find it myself,” Tim scoffs, scrunching himself down into Jason’s pillows. “Hey, pass me that blanket?”

“No,” Jason replies, pulling the blanket in question tighter about himself. It’s his favourite, warm and soft, and the weight of it on top of him is already making him sleepy despite Tim’s rudeness.

“It’s okay, I don’t need one anyway,” Tim says.

“Seriously, _go away_.” What is the world coming to? The only brother Jason should have this much trouble getting rid of is Dick.

“Babysitting, remember? And when baby sleeps, so does sitter.” Tim pats kindly at Jason’s blanket-covered elbow. Jason kindly doesn’t strangle him for it.

Yet. He doesn’t do it _yet_ . Because there’s a tickle of nervousness in the pit of his belly about having someone else sleep so close to him, and not out of fear for _his_ safety, either. That on top of his incomplete acceptance of Tim’s migraine theory has him lying stiff in his blankets when Tim finally reaches over and flicks the lights off. 

“Big spoon or little?” Tim asks, which surprises Jason so much that he actually laughs. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

“Did WebMD tell you that?”

“Nah. Everything is just always better with more sleep,” Tim replies, and then yawns. “Shh.”

Jason manages about five minutes of his commitment to stay awake while Tim’s breathing slows and evens out next to him. He’s warm and comfortable and his head doesn’t hurt anymore, and he might not be dying or going crazy after all. The closer he gets to sleep, the easier it is to believe.

He’s nearly asleep himself when Tim, sounding far more awake than Jason would have expected, says, “I’m not scared of you.”

He probably should be. That said, they’re Robins - not scared of much. Jason mumbles, “Go to sleep,” and promptly follows his own command.


End file.
